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I couldn’t close the door—my father had broken the hinges and locks and taken them along with him to hell.
“I hate you.” I kept going. With each stab, I felt like I could finally stop being voiceless. “You don’t get to make me feel weak. You don’t get to hurt me. You don’t. You don’t.”
One more. Another. Another. I smiled with tears streaming down my cheeks. “I hate you. I hate you for what you did to Mom.”
“St-stop.” Blood frothed down his lips.
“Die. You have to die. I have to live.”
“Ya-Yara… please, sto—”
“I hate you.”
As I stood there, absorbing the weight of this newfound power, the world around me shifted. I was no longer a spectator.
“You’ll rot in hell.”
The doorbell rang, cutting the silence that stretched from one wall to the next.
“Yara? Yara.” It was my grandfather. He told me he’d come by later to give me my present.
I opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw my bloodstained dress. My beautiful blue dress, with glittering tulle, was now red.
A gasp left him as he quickly closed the door behind him and locked it. Twice. Entered the security codes, then pulled the drapes down until my house was shrouded in darkness, cloaking my sin within.
Only then, he turned to me.
“What have you done, Yara?” But he was not angry. Together, we went back to my room. He asked me to go to the bathroom and wash myself.
“What are you going to do, Grandpa?”
I washed myself until the smell of death and father’s blood was gone. When I walked out, wearing my pajamas, he was burning my dress in our backyard.
Everything felt strange and distorted. As if I was looking from behind a screen. I feared if I blinked, this would all disappear, and my father would come back to my room the next night and the next.
“I killed your father,” my grandfather said when we finally walked back to the room. “I killed him because he’s a monster. I should have.” The pink clock was ticking away, without a care in the world. “I won’t let you pay the price for my ineptitude.”
My father’s eyes, wide with fear, remained frozen at that moment, forever immortalized. I knew, at that moment, that I’d never forget this, this look of pure fear in his eyes.
The sight of red was strangely serene. An odd kind of Zen settled over me, and I almost felt compelled to sit down and offer a prayer over his dead body.
“Why?”
I sighed as I leaned against my bed. “So that I can kill him all over again.”
6
ART OF MURDER
RYDEN
Ifelt like punching Phil until I bled from his pain, but he wouldn’t feel anything now, would he? He was already fucking dead.
The restless chill in my body never receded as I stared at the lifeless man hanging from the rope. One less piece of garbage, and the world was cleaner than before. But for the first time, I was not enjoying the process. The thing I loved most about killing was the art, the display. The power to twist these monsters into anything I wanted.
At that one moment, I was God, but tonight, the sense of smugness was smashed into smithereens. There was only a hollow sense of self-deprecation, and it was all because of that fucking woman.
I shouldn’t have given in to the temptation. I wanted to feel the adrenaline and look where it got me. There was a witness now, and she knew who I was, what I was.
